


Lights On For Me

by meresy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Closeted Character, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12541676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meresy/pseuds/meresy
Summary: “You still haven’t said where you disappeared to for hours,” Jack says.“Why is it any of your business?” Kent asks, abruptly frustrated. Jack had to suspect, or he wouldn’t be this persistent. Kent had thought they were doing plausible deniability, though, the same way Jack looked the other way when Kent made a dirty play.In the summer after his first season in Québec, Kent goes out to pick up guys. Jack thinks this is a terrible idea.





	Lights On For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: Unbeta’d. Offscreen alcohol use. Coarse language in French and English. Unsupervised teenage hockey players. Fear of being outed. Peer pressure (to stay closeted). Ableist language. Homophobic slur (French, referring to himself). 
> 
> If there's anything else you feel should have a warning, please let me know!

Kent’s not sure which house is the right one. The street is dark and quiet except for the steady patter of rain and the shifting of the trees overhead after the taxi drops him off and its lights pull away. Fat drops of water fall on him as he considers the long row of stone townhouses. He’s been staying here for a week now, and he remembered the street name, but he’s a little drunk and it’s rainy and all the goddamn houses in this part of Montréal look the same in the dark. It’s not the one with the fancy curling railings, and it’s not the one with the “À Louer” signs. He may have walked past it, or it may be up ahead. His phone is dead, so he can’t call anyone to remind him of the right number.

He keeps walking for a while, waiting to see something familiar, and finally catches a break – there’s a bicycle chained to the fence of the tiny garden in front of one house across the street. Kent recognizes that bike, and the blue curtains lit from behind in the second level window of the neighbouring house. He sighs in relief. His night had been good – he didn’t want his streak to end badly.

He crosses the street and clatters up the metal steps to the second floor, digging in his pocket for the key, which is damn near impossible given the tightness of his jeans and how soaked with rain he is. He tries the wrong door first, and after a few seconds of fighting with the lock he realizes his mistake. He tries the other, not feeling as stupid as he might otherwise, his good buzz lingering.

He finally manages to get the key in the slot when the door wrenches open.

Jack stares down at Kent, crazy laser eyes on full blast.

_Ah, shit._

“Where were you?” Jack asks.

Kent pushes past Jack and into the apartment, shivering suddenly as the rain on his skin chills in the cool indoor air.

“I was out doing the bar crawl. How was your night in, grandma?” Kent asks, kicking his shoes off and dropping his key and wallet on the small table by the door.

“Luc texted me a while ago asking if you were here. He said they lost you around Le Saint-Sulpice and they couldn’t reach you. It’s storming,” Jack says.

Kent spreads his arms. “Well, here I am, in one piece. You can call off the search party.”

Kent turns around and heads down the hallway to the kitchen in the back, and Jack follows. The apartment is fairly small and old-fashioned, especially compared to the Zimmermanns’ giant house in Laval. The townhouse flat is comfortably decorated, but Kent doesn’t know if Bob and Alicia ever actually stay here. It’s become Jack’s summer bachelor pad, whatever it was meant for, and maybe that was it. Lucky bastard. Good thing Kent is here to benefit.

Kent pulls a Powerade out of the fridge and chugs half of it, watching Jack out of the corner of his eye. Jack is typing laboriously on his shitty flip phone, probably telling the guys Kent has turned up.

“What are you even doing up? If you were going to be a night owl anyway, why didn’t you come with?” Kent squints at him. Jack had pled exhaustion, which was fair enough; they’d been going pretty hard every night since Kent had arrived in town, and Jack had a long training session earlier. “You not sleeping again?”

“You still haven’t said where you disappeared to for hours,” Jack says.

“Why is it any of your business?” Kent asks, abruptly frustrated. Jack had to suspect, or he wouldn’t be this persistent. Kent had thought they were doing plausible deniability, though, the same way Jack looked the other way when Kent made a dirty play.

Weeks ago, Jack had given him this _look_ after a TV interview, one of the shitty ones with the volley of questions about girlfriends. Jack had drawn all the fire, cool as a cucumber. Kent had swallowed the dryness in his throat and said, “Thanks for the redirect.” And Jack said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and turned his cold eyes away. It stung, because they were best friends, and Kent thought maybe he could be real with Jack, if nothing else.

They live in each other’s pockets, and Kent knows he hasn’t been all that subtle. When Jack invited him to Montréal, Kent had tried to bring it up again by asking if Jack had ever been to a gay bar, “Like, out of curiosity, there are a lot of them downtown, right?” Which he’s realizing right now gave the game away, but at the time he was just looking for any kind of acknowledgement. All he got was an incredulous, red-faced look and “No! I’d never,” and they dropped it.

They clearly weren’t going to talk about it outright, despite weird moments in hotel rooms, and that’s fine.

Kent can live with it. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Until now, apparently.

“Just—tell me. What were you doing?” Jack asks, and he looks strangely desperate in the dim light of the kitchen. Kent looks at him more closely. Jack’s hair is ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it. The hand not holding his phone is clenched tightly.

 “I think you have an idea,” Kent says, low.

“You went up to Sainte-Catherine on your own, didn’t you? To the Village. To pick up,” Jack says.

“Yeah, I did.”

“You can’t do that!” Jack’s face is white as a sheet.

Kent scoffs. “We went clubbing last night, too. Of course I can.” He’s being obtuse, but Jack deserves it. Who the fuck does he think he is, Kent’s jealous boyfriend?

“Câlisse, not like that!” Jack says.

“Oh, so it’s a problem that it’s _gay_ clubs,” Kent sneers.

“Yes!” Jack says, and then shakes his head. “No! It’s not _wrong_. It’s not _safe_. What if someone recognized you?”

“No one fucking recognized me.”

“You don’t know if they did!” Jack retorts. “For fuck sake, this isn’t some bush party, it’s Montréal! There could be _press_!” Jack runs his hand through his hair and paces once, twice, the length of the little kitchen before coming closer to Kent. “You’re a top prospect! Do you want that to be the only thing they’ll—”

“This is my _last chance!_ ” Kent’s voice cracks, humiliatingly. “Fuck. Right now some people know my name, but they don’t know my face yet and this is it. This is it for me, don’t you get it?”

Kent slams his bottle onto the counter before he throws it, then leans against the fridge and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

The World Juniors press was intense, but people don’t recognize him out of context; he doesn’t get stopped in the street, no one’s going to stop him in a nightclub. That will change, next year, leading up to the draft. During the season and the school year he’s never left alone long enough and never certain enough to take a chance in a town as small as the one they live in. He’s thought all of this through. And fuck Jack for thinking he hasn’t.

Some guys talk about doing their best to find a nice girl before the spotlight finds them. Maybe the class of pussy gets higher when your first NHL paycheque comes in, but the chance of gold digging does, too. Other guys are all too happy at the prospect of a trophy wife, or at least brag-worthy conquests. Kent wishes he had either problem.

The highest personal goal to which he can aspire right now is losing his gay virginity without having it haunt him later. He can forget finding somebody who wants to know him _or_ his money long-term. Maybe there are ways to get by, but Kent can’t exactly ask. There are all kinds of awkward talks from coaches and agents and Bob fucking Zimmermann on not getting girls pregnant, but none on how to stay safely on the down low once you’re more than a big deal in Rimouski.

This month in Montréal might be the only time he’s going to get. Everything he does has a countdown on it, whether it’s hockey or his life, but it’s not in Kent’s nature to give up even when things look pretty hopeless.

“You can’t go out like that, not in public. It’s too risky. Can’t you just...” Jack begins, but seems to think better of it.

“If you were about to say ‘try dating girls’, I swear to God I will fucking punch you,” Kent snaps, glaring at Jack. Kent does try. It’s terrible and terrifying. Girls have a keen sense for bullshit, and Kent has mountains of it. He never sees the same girl for longer than a couple months.

Kent must look pretty menacing, because Jack backs up a step towards the doorway.

“No, that wasn’t... I, uh.” Jack looks awkward, but still irritated. He huffs out a breath. “You’re okay?” he asks.

Kent rolls his eyes. “I’m fucking fine and I'm pissed off at you telling me what to do. You’re not captain of my life, you fucking head case. You don’t even have your own shit together.”

 “You’re an asshole,” Jack says. He looks like he has a lot more to say than that, but doesn’t. Jack keeps frowning, an angry slant to his mouth. They’re probably going to rehash this in the morning, after Jack has more time to organize all his thoughts on how Kent is fucking up his life.

Kent’s clothes are still sticking to him unpleasantly, tight black jeans and clinging v-neck feeling shrunken by the rain. He’s rumpled and feels flushed with emotion and stubble burn. It’s entirely likely that second guy in the bar gave him a hickey, if the way Jack’s eyes catch on Kent’s neck means anything. The good buzz is long gone.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Kent says. “Good night, Zimms.”

Jack doesn’t reply, and Kent sidles by him and heads for the little guest bedroom first. The thunderstorm is intensifying again; a low growl of thunder and the rush of a sudden downpour are barely muffled by the closed windows. Kent steps into the room, switches on the bedside lamp and plugs in his phone. He peels off his damp shirt and lets it fall to the floor, stretching his arms and shoulders. Kent danced hard and walked what seemed like the breadth of the island in the rain, and the bed is calling his name. He’s debating skipping the shower in favour of just jerking off and going to sleep, when the floor creaks.

Jack steps in and stands just inside the doorway. His eyes are burning holes into Kent, who is a little alarmed. That’s the faceoff look.

“What?” Kent asks, turning.

Jack steps right into Kent’s space, so close Kent has to turn his head a little to meet his eyes. He can feel Jack’s body heat.

“You didn’t really answer my question,” Jack says.

“What?” Kent says again. “I told you.” This is weird, even for Jack.

“What did you do? In the clubs,” Jack says, pausing strangely. And he looks...

 _Jealous,_ Kent thinks, but that’s crazy, that’s wishful thinking—

Jack reaches up, slowly, and puts his hand on the back of Kent’s neck, not grasping, but his thumb presses directly into a stinging bruise. Then his fingers move up to grip Kent’s hair, never breaking eye contact, and Kent’s heart starts pounding.

_Holy shit._

“Holy shit,” Kent says out loud.

Jack reels him in, and Kent loses his mind for a several seconds. All the frustrated lust of the dancefloor and the gym and the dressing room boils up at once. Kent grabs Jack’s shirt and walks him back one step, two, and bails him up against the open door, kissing him fiercely all the way. Kent scrapes his teeth over Jack’s bottom lip and pries his mouth open with his tongue, and Jack meets him just as hard. It’s too fast, far too fast, and Kent loses his breath.

Kent pulls back, gasping, and asks, “Is that what you wanna know about? Is that—fuck!”

Jack bites him, right over the hickey on his neck, his breath gusting behind Kent’s ear, shivery.

“ _Fuck_ , yeah, that was—that was the second guy. I made out with three different guys tonight,” Kent says, reaching up to thread his fingers into Jack’s hair and rising onto his toes to press closer, but Jack pulls his head back and looks Kent in the eyes.

“Four,” he says, pushing Kent back with a hand on his hip, but keeping hold of him.

Kent laughs, dizzy, amazed, and lets Jack push him down on the unmade double bed. Jack follows, nudging Kent up to lay his head on the pillows and arranging him to his satisfaction, which is pressed into the sheets by half of Jack’s weight as he leans over him with one leg planted between Kent’s.

They kiss again, less frantically. Kent starts trying to put some finesse into it, curling his tongue to coax Jack’s back where he can suck on it. They’re still open-mouthed and sloppy, and it’s way, way better than the showy, self-conscious kisses Kent gave and got in the club. There’s less grinding, though. Jack Zimmermann is apparently a fucking gentleman.

Kent feels little hysterical, and ducks his head to press his face into Jack’s shirt. It’s one of his soft sleep shirts, and he’s so warm, and he smells good and familiar, like sleep-sweat and soap. It’s Jack. Kent can’t believe it. He curls one arm around and pushes his hand up the back of Jack’s shirt, scratching his fingers through the sparse hair at the small of Jack’s back. In his fantasies he never imagined details like the feel of body hair—this is real. Jack grunts, and drops to the side a bit, no longer hovering over Kent.

“Tell me what happened,” Jack says, putting his mouth right at Kent’s ear. The asshole, it’s like he already knows how it makes Kent shiver, and maybe he does. They’ve had enough sexually charged wrestling matches over the course of their friendship that he could have noticed this. Kent just thought the tension was all him.

Kent turns his head and kisses Jack again, squeezing Jack’s leg between his own and hitching his hips forward. Jack pulls back and grimaces, and Kent has a second to be dismayed before Jack says, “Your jeans are wet.”

Kent looks down. There are rain-damp patches on Jack’s grey pyjama pants. He also sees the clear shape of Jack’s hard cock through the thin material, and feels dizzy again. Kent makes an executive decision and starts fighting out of his jeans, and Jack rises to his knees to help pull them all the way off.

“These are so tight,” Jack says, yanking on the denim. “Were guys checking you out? Did you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent says, finally kicking free. He’s going to tell the story, fast—he’s got better things to do with his mouth. “There was a guy, tall guy, Marc, and he bought me a beer and we danced a bit. He—after, we went back up to a table and I sat on the stool and he got right between my legs, stood there and put his fingers in my front pocket while we made out. It was so—what?” Jack has stopped moving.

Jack stares down at him, looking stunned. “You’re wearing a jock strap. You wore a jock strap?”

Kent preens a little, spreading his legs. “Bit of a cliché, I know, but the boys need a home and you try getting those jeans on over box _errrs_ —oh! Ah.”

Kent cuts off as Jack cups his hand over the front of the jock and Kent’s hard dick, his thumb and forefinger framing the head through the fabric. His hand is huge, Jesus.

“Okay?” Jack asks.

“ _Yeah._ ” Kent will maintain until his dying day that he did not squeak.

“You must have bought it specially, it’s not your usual,” Jack says.

Kent gapes at him for a moment before his upstairs brain reengages. Jack pays attention to what jock he usually wears? “Yeah. A couple. My others are 3-in-1, the garters can’t, oh, Jesus—” he babbles. Jack’s hand is so hot, and his thumb is moving just firmly enough over the head of Kent’s cock to be felt through the material and it’s making Kent _whimper_. He twists his hands into the sheets, just to hold on to something, and watches Jack’s hand, rapt.

“Did anyone,” Jack begins, licking his lips. “Did anyone touch you like this?” Jack is breathing as heavily as Kent is. He seems transfixed by his own hand as he kneels by Kent’s hip. Jack glances up and catches Kent’s eyes, and _squeezes_. “Did you hook up?”

“N-no, I chickened out,” he confesses, embarrassed and so turned-on by the look Jack is giving him. “I thought about it. Marc, he would have, I think, if I’d asked. I almost did.”

Jack puts his free hand on Kent’s hip, which Kent hadn’t even realized was straining up towards the hand on his dick, and he wants to touch Jack so badly. He wants to pull him back over top of him and feel his weight and warmth on Kent’s chilly skin, but Jack has other ideas.

Jack pulls at the pouch of the jock, just exposing the head of Kent’s cock. His dick is trapped a bit awkwardly against the inside of his leg, but Kent is beyond caring and unable to move as Jack _fucking licks his thumb_ and starts rubbing over the head of Kent’s cock again, back and forth, then over the slit. He didn’t need to wet his thumb—Kent is slick with precome already, smearing against his thigh. But the idea of it, the fact of it, Jack’s spit on his cock, has Kent gasping.

“Could he have felt you like this, through your pocket?” Jack asks, panting, shaky. “He could have gotten you like this, right in the bar, standing so no one could see, and just...” He teases the head of Kent’s cock with his thumb and forefinger, and it has Kent aching more than he has in is _life._

Jesus fuck, what is Jack _doing to him_? Kent’s going to die. He can’t take this.

“No, no, too tight, and I wasn’t _this hard_. Jack, Zimms, you gotta do something, make me come, I gotta.” Kent is shuddering, probably shaking the whole bed, and almost out of words. He lets go of the bedsheets and reaches for Jack instead, managing to pull one side of his loose pyjama pants down over his hip. Kent wants to touch him, he wants to kiss him, he wants to lick him, suck him, climb over top of him and slide his cock—

“Okay, okay,” Jack says, and stops torturing Kent in favour of pulling his shirt over his head, which is its own kind of stunning. Kent has seen Jack in all stages of undress, and witnessed the work that carved that lean body out of its puppy-fat layers, but he has never felt the impact quite like this. It’s one thing to think that your teammate and best friend is hot, and entirely another to know that the boy in your bed is beautiful.

Kent stops staring at Jack’s nipples long enough to peel the band of the jock strap away from his hips and ease it down, hissing as it catches on oversensitive skin. He lifts his legs a little awkwardly to get it far enough off that he can kick it away and then grabs Jack and pulls him on top of him. Jack moves between Kent’s legs, and Kent tries to press as much of himself to Jack as possible, as closely as possible, except Jack still has his damn pyjama pants on.

 “Here, just—take these off.” Kent pushes him up a bit to make space, and slides his hands around Jack’s waist. He pushes at Jack’s loose pants and gets them over his hips, over his ass, until they fall far enough down his thighs. Jack’s cock is exposed, dark pink and probably a little bigger than Kent’s, and so hard. The sight is like a sudden check; Kent is winded.

“Okay?” Jack asks uncertainly, looking up from between them, clearly having lost a bit of nerve.

“Yes,” Kent says, and pulls at his hips, falling back.

Jack gets his knees under him, his thighs under Kent’s, and with a filthy grind of his hips drags the entire length of his cock against Kent’s, hot skin and rough hair and oh fuck, those are his balls rubbing against the base of Kent’s cock. They press close, trying to get a rhythm but mostly failing, getting too distracted by kissing. And it’s _barely anything_ , it’s not even _sex,_ but it’s so hot and Kent just can’t stand any more.

Kent fumbles for his aching dick, grabs the back of Jack’s head to pull him harder into a kiss, and comes, shaking and whining.

Jack pulls back from Kent’s mouth with a gasp, and looks at where Kent came all over them both. He covers Kent’s hand with his own as Kent squeezes out the last drops of come. They both shudder.

“ _Crisse_ , Kenny,” Jack says, red-cheeked and stunned. Oh, he looks stupid. Kent loves him.

Kent pulls their hands from his dick and reaches for Jack’s, takes a deep breath, and tries out the French he wasn’t brave enough for in the bars. This might be his last chance.

“J’veux te faire une pipe,” he says, looking Jack straight in the eye, and gives him a careful stroke with his wet hand.

Jack makes an incredulous noise, bats Kent’s hand away to grab himself, and comes then and there, shooting over Kent’s belly. Jack rubs the wet head of his dick along the trail of hair below Kent’s navel and moans pathetically, his whole body sagging downward like he’s lost all strength. His forehead drops to Kent’s shoulder.

“Seriously?” Kent asks, gazing up at the ceiling and shivering at the feel of their come smearing between them.

“Ta gueule,” Jack mutters, and nips at Kent’s collarbone. “Like you can talk. I barely touched you.”

“Fuck you. I have been horny _all night,_ ” Kent complains, wiping his hand on the sheets, and Jack laughs. Jack pulls his arm from between them and settles fully on top of Kent, head resting against Kent’s neck. His weight is comforting, like a heavy blanket.

They rest silently for a few moments, just breathing. The thunder has stopped but Kent can still hear the rush of rain as it pours down. He likes storms, and he especially likes the way they wash the city clean, and make everything seem greener after. He smooths his hands over Jack’s back.

“You’re brave,” Jack says, his voice rumbling through his chest. Kent can feel it in his own bones. “To go out there, I mean. I could never, for a lot of reasons. But if you... you can ask me instead, yeah? It’s safer, isn’t it safer?”

 _He’s jealous_ , Kent thinks gleefully, the stupidest, gayest parts of him rising up from where he usually stomps them down. _He’s jealous and he wants me for himself._ _He knows me and he wants me._

But then he registers that last part.

“Nothing’s completely safe. You know people already talk shit about us,” Kent says, and oh, that was stupid, too. Jack freezes up palpably in Kent’s arms, his muscles going stiff. “But whatever, don’t get wound up, it’s just the usual bullshit. I have to ask, though, are you _actually_ gay? Because, man, I know you best and you still had me pretty fooled.” He’ll be pretty pissed about that later, he thinks, but right now he’s too happy.

“I... Not really,” Jack says, and what the hell.

“Then what the hell was that gay shit we just did?” Kent asks, incredulous. They’re still fucking cuddling, stuck together with sweat and come. That’s got to be nearly peak gay.

“I like girls? I do. And I’ve never, but—I look at both,” Jack says, sounding uncertain.

“Huh.” Kent considers it. “You’re lucky you’re not a complete tapette like me, I guess.”

Jack heaves a sigh, breath gusting over Kent’s chest. “Oh. Don’t use that word.” He pauses. “You’re going to stop, though, right? Going to gay bars?”

“Fuck, I barely started,” Kent whines. “Why do you hate freedom?”

Jack tightens his arms at Kent’s sides. “I can’t worry about that. Rumours are bad enough, but you could get photographed, you could get recognized. What if you meet some—some—crosseur, a creep—and then the press, everything will be about, and we’re—” His words are coming too fast.

“Whoa, whoa, time out, buddy. None of that’s happening,” Kent says, patting Jack’s head. Not so deep down, he resents it. He knows, intellectually, that Jack can’t help what sends him into his fucking blue screen of death moments, but at the same time it’s bullshit that Kent has to work around it. The quantity of shit Kent _does not do_ for Jack Zimmermann...

Jack calms, breathing deliberately steady. Kent scratches his nails though Jack’s hair and waits, to be sure, but not too long. It doesn’t do to leave Jack stewing.

“You meant it, though?” Kent asks. “That we can do this? Because I can stop. For this.” Probably.

Jack lets out a long, long breath and raises his head. He presses a kiss to Kent’s lips, close-mouthed.

“Yeah. Carefully, though, I mean it. _Nobody_ can find out,” Jack says, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you.”

Kent beams at Jack, and gathers him back in with his arms around Jack’s shoulders. Kent loves cuddling, and it’s going to be so much better now that he won’t have to worry about liking it a little too obviously. This is so nice, even if they are pretty gross and sticky. He slides his hands down and gets two handfuls of Jack’s ass. Jack just hums amiably, tension easing. Yeah, _nice._

Kent drifts a bit, until Jack taps out a little rhythm on Kent’s shoulder with his fingers.

“You’re not gonna sleep, are you?” Kent asks.

Jack stills. “I... maybe not. Sorry, I’ll go.” He moves to get up and Kent winds his legs and arms around him obstinately.

Then Kent changes his mind and shoves him away.

“Come on, bitch, we’re having a shower and a Red Bull and going to La Banquise,” Kent declares.

“Ugh, what, it’s like four o’clock! And it’s still raining.”

“If we’re not sleeping, we’re getting poutine. Get up,” Kent says, standing up.

“Fine,” Jack says, rolling off the bed. “But you’re waiting in line, if there is one. I’ll stay in the cab. Which you’re paying for.” He kicks his stained pyjama pants off, standing naked and gilded by the lamplight.

Kent looks at him and thinks, _I can live with that._

**Author's Note:**

> French:  
> Câlisse – fuck  
> Crisse – Christ/goddamn  
> J’veux te faire une pipe – “I want to give you a blow job.”  
> Ta gueule – “Shut up.”  
> Crosseur – someone who fucks you over  
> Tapette – homophobic slur
> 
>  
> 
> -During the season, Jack and Kent’s thing survives Jack’s terror for one hook-up at a time, followed by long periods of awkwardness/longing/resentment and incredible hockey. Rinse, repeat, until next summer.  
> -Jealousy and envy are different things. Sorry, Kent.  
> -The drinking age in Québec is 18, and Kent has a cousin's NY license. Jack has a fake.  
> -The apartment is somewhere near Square Saint-Louis/Station Sherbrooke and is the first place Bob bought in Montréal. He keeps it for a few practical and several sentimental reasons. Jack stays there sometimes because he doesn’t like rattling around in the big house when his parents are out of town, and it’s the best base of operations for partying.  
> -Marc _totally would have_ , but he saw that Kent was a bit skittish and pretty young, so he didn’t push it. Good Guy Marc. They made out until the club closed and Marc carried the tale of the hot, blond jock back to a regular fuckbuddy and everyone was a winner chez Marc.  
> -Sometimes you hear [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpmE0Qiup3U) and then you reminisce about drunkenly wandering around Plateau-Mont-Royal in the middle of the night in a summer downpour. Then you write fic for the first time in a decade and smut for the first time ever.


End file.
